Guide and Guardian
by Louise-Anne
Summary: The first two chapters of 'The Angel's Shadow' involved Erik rescuing Meg from an attempted rapist in the streets of Paris, and the repercussions of that incident. This one-shot covers those same events from Erik's point of view.


_The first two chapters of _'The Angel's Shadow' _involved Erik rescuing Meg from an attempted rapist in the streets of Paris, and the repercussions of that incident. This one-shot covers those same events from Erik's point of view._

**Guide and Guardian**

We had met before, but she would not remember. No human remembers the moment they slide from their mother's womb, slippery and bloodstained, into the hands waiting to receive them. I once read that a woman in the final stages of labour should birth the child unassisted, as that first contact binds two people together irreconcilably. Better that the mother's hands be the first to touch her child, not the hands of a man, and one so hideous that he wears a mask. It is nonsense, of course.

Other encounters had been close, near-misses. I preferred to observe without being observed, especially since her father had taken it personally that he had not been there to deliver his child. She wasn't exactly a disobedient girl, but there was a strange thread of darkness and curiosity to her that led her to test just how far she could bend rules before they broke. When they were broken, the punishment was swift but appropriate; a scolding where needed or a beating in the case of a serious offence.

Nevertheless, the darkness was rooted within her, and appeared to have been inherited from her father, who as time went on would spend longer and longer periods in a state of the blackest depression. I did not pity him then, I sneered upon him. The man was handsome, had a steady income, a home, a wife, a daughter; it was selfish of him to ignore all those things and let the depression envelope him. It wasn't until he beat the child with a belt, so badly that he might have crippled her if his wife hadn't stopped him, that I realised this was not just selfishness, but madness. He was temporarily placed in an asylum where, I am told, he received the most innovative of care before being allowed to return to his family.

I was not there when he took his own life.

Left with only her mother, I suppose it is unsurprising that the wild streak blossomed within her, without a father's hand to tame it. I saw the upcoming occurrence days in advance, but did nothing to stop it. She was sixteen and had never been kissed, but had been leered over by the stagehands and other undesirable men who populated the Opera House. None had attempted to touch her yet, but their urge to do so was plain; perhaps if her mother had not held in such a high office within the Opera House, they would have been tempted.

She listened to tales of dalliances and even debauchery from the older ballerinas without the disgust and disapproval of my Catholic pupil, but with fascination and jealousy. I knew it could not be long before she tried to seek out such an experience for herself, but chose not to intervene. The lesson she got would be short and sharp.

Insomnia had plagued me that night, and in an attempt to rid myself of it, I had gone up to the stables and saddled César, the black stallion. We had ridden for perhaps an hour before my body unwound and my mind relaxed, and I knew that sleep could come to me. I turned the horse back towards the Opera House, towards home.

It was as I was leaving my faithful steed that I became aware of the movement over my head. Someone was climbing down the ivy that shrouded the stable's walls, and I sank back into the shadows. The girl's fall from the ivy should have left her on her backside, but she caught herself with her ballerina's grace and landed cat-like on her feet. She was wearing a grey cloak and a blue gown, her golden curls pulled back from her face, and I could see even from here that she had neglected to dress properly. It seemed I was not the only one to suffer from insomnia, for I could see the outline of her shape and the protrusion of her nipples against the fabric of her gown, so obviously she was not wearing a corset.

She looked around, excited, daring, and left the grounds of the Opera House for the streets of Paris. Of course it would be tonight; he mother was away from the Opera House and she believed her transgression would remain undiscovered. I followed her, knowing the city better than she did, knowing ways over the roofs that allowed me to observe her from a birds-eye view. I perched like a gargoyle on a rooftop, watching as she entered a public house, to be surrounded by the attentions and flatteries of men. Could she not see that she was a dove among alley cats? That it would all end in teeth and claws?

When she emerged, it was in the company of one of the tomcats, a man several inches taller than her, with broad shoulders and a confident stride that spoke of someone used to having his wishes obeyed. Her steps were uncertain, erratic, his strong arm around her waist keeping her upright as he eased a bottle to her lips.

"Drink, little Meg, or you'll freeze."

She drank, stumbled, and stared about her for the name of the street.

"Where are we going?"

"Don't be afraid, child," his voice was gentle, the silky tones of a predator. "It'll be alright. You said you were going to be a prima donna, one day. I'm just taking you to somewhere you can perform for me."

It was obvious what kind of performance he had in mind. Another few streets, into the back alleys of Paris, and he was pinning the child against a wall, his mouth on hers, grinding his hips against her and muffling her questions and protests. Watching from above, I could see his impatience building as she struggled to regain her senses and he fumbled with the clasp of her cloak, pulling the material away. She was fighting weakly and his breathing was becoming angered; he must have expected her to be pliant by now so that he could take her without objection. His hands ripped at the bodice of her dress, exposing her creamy skin to the scattered moonlight seeping through broken clouds, opening a red line over her left breast with his nails as his lust took hold.

I had seen enough. Silently, I wrapped my cloak tightly around me, turned on the rooftop and slid so that my abdomen was against its edge, lowered myself by the fingers and then let go, dropping with as little noise as I could manage, although the air was forced out of my lungs as I hit the cobbles below.

The child, Meg, was being crushed underneath her assailant now and there was a bleeding cut above her lip.

"Don't…" she managed. "Please…"

And the man clamped his large hand over her mouth and tore her pantalets from her completely. I grabbed him, one black-gloved hand on either side of his skull, and twisted with practiced ease. The snap of his neck breaking confirmed the deed was done as he lurched sideways and I crouched over him, breathing hard, feeling a rush of adrenaline and power.

The terrified gasps met my ears and slowly I raised my head. The girl was half-lying on the cobblestones, her back against the wall, her skirts pushed around her waist and one breast bared by the ruined gown. My body reacted to the sight of her exposed breast and womanhood, its stirring already triggered by the power of the kill, heightening as my eyes locked onto hers with the well-practiced stare that a fox used against a rabbit, and I knew that she would not move from me. There was recognition there too, fear and relief mixed together in her tears. How could she show her gratitude?

_No_, I told myself firmly. I would not save a girl's innocence only to seize it myself in a moment of bloodlust._ A murderer, perhaps, but never a rapist._ Such men belonged in Hell.

"Mademoiselle Giry," I greeted her.

She did not respond, could not, it seemed. The shock of the situation seemed to have paralysed her. Good; that was easier to deal with than violent hysterics. Moving swiftly, I undid my own cloak and removed it, wrapping it around her to conceal her nudity and protect her from the night wind that was beginning to gain more force. I slid one arm around her back and the other under her knees, lifting her in my arms, surprised to find that she weighed even less than I had anticipated. It was only then that she broke down completely. Her arms found the gap in my cloak and wrapped around my neck as she buried her face in my chest and sobbed. She was making too much noise; I would be caught and doubtless held accountable for her distress if she did not stop crying. I took a deep breath to stifle the anger that threatened and instead allowed my head to drop forward, murmuring into her golden hair:

"Shh… You're safe now… but you must be silent, Meg… hush…"

It was a few minutes before her sobs, already muffled by my jacket, ceased and her arms relaxed their hold around my neck. I knew immediately that she had lost consciousness, had expected it even, and without the worry of her giving us away, I was able to move more swiftly through the Paris streets back to the Opera House. The trickiest part was getting into my home from the Rue Scribe entrance, trying to unlock the door with the girl in my arms and remain inconspicuous.

I carried her down the staircase, knocking the concealed door closed with my heel and proceeding through the pantry and kitchen into the hallway, hesitating. The bedroom with the Louis-Phillipe furniture was not yet ready for habitation, and the decoration it did have did not fit with the persona of the Opera Ghost. If the girl truly did recognise me from the tales she had grown up hearing, it would arouse questions I had no desire to answer.

I carried her into my own bedroom, laying her down on the bed and checking her pulse by pressing my fingers against her wrist. Her pulse was strong and steady and I realised that her unconsciousness was the result of a drug.

_Damn_.

I left her cocooned in my cloak, but took the liberty of resituating her skirt so that it covered her, then left the room, locking the bedroom door behind me. If she came to before I returned, I did not need her prying my home and its secrets, perhaps getting herself hurt or killed by my traps. Exiting the Opera House the same way I had entered, I retraced my steps to the alleyway and its deceased occupant. No one had yet discovered the body, and I patted the man down, emptying his pockets until I found what I was looking for; the bottle he had given to Meg. I pulled the cork out and sniffed, analysing the smell of the drug, but it was not one I recognised. Sighing, I tucked it into my jacket, along with the man's fob watch, the twenty francs in his possession, and the other odds and ends lining his pockets. A true corpse has no need for such things.

I returned to my home and stripped off my jacket, gloves and cravat before approaching my bedroom door, feeling a slight sense of apprehension. God knew what the unknown drug had done to Meg Giry; I had seen narcotics in Persia that not only knocked a person out, but manipulated their emotions and actions. I took a breath, reminding myself that this was not Persia, but France, and softly rapped my knuckles against the door.

Silence. I knocked again, not wishing to alarm Meg if she were awake, and then unlocked the door. She was where I had left her, still lying wrapped in my cloak, eyes closed. Meg Giry was small and slim with long golden curls; physically she took after her dead father rather than her mother. Perhaps mentally too. I had been watching her for so long like a favoured pet, observed her day-to-day life, that I had somehow not noticed her growing into adulthood. In my mind, she was still a child, and yet there could be no denying that childhood was behind her. It was strange, to see a girl – a woman – on my bed. I sat on the edge of the mattress and shook her gently, but got no response. I had to wake her and return her to her dormitory before anyone noticed she was missing. I leant down over her.

"Mademoiselle Giry." I tapped her cheek. "Meg."

Another tap, harder. Her eyes opened, looking up at me with a slightly dazed expression before recognition flared again.

"I know you," she said, her voice sounding a little groggy, her words a little slurred by the drug. She did not scream, nor try to run, or even move, her eyes simply followed the line of my mask, studied the visible features of my face.

"And I know you, Mademoiselle Giry." I replied.

"Meg."

"Meg." I acknowledged, watching as her awareness returned. No convulsions, no vomiting, no hysterics… good. Her pupils were dilated, but contracted when I moved, allowing candlelight to hit her eyes. She seemed sound of mind, as far as I could judge.

"What did you think you were doing tonight?"

"I…" Her faced flooded scarlet as she searched for words to justify her behaviour, but could not find them.

"Hmm." I stood up. "Stay here."

I left the room, fetching a tray, a bottle of the gypsy remedy I used for cuts and scrapes, then a long white dressing gown I had intended for Christine's use. I could hardly take Meg Giry back into the main Opera House with her gown in its current state. I hesitated before picking up the long white strip of cloth; if she fought me then the whole venture could prove more trouble than it was worth, but I could _not_ allow the girl to come wandering back down to my home whenever she felt like it.

I re-entered my bedroom to see Meg sitting up, still wrapped in my cloak and looking around the room. She gave a start of guilt when she saw me, and I sat down on the edge of the bed, putting down the blindfold and the dressing gown, balancing the tray on my knees.

"Take off the cloak," I ordered, and she flinched. It was then that I realised that it wasn't guilt she was feeling, but fear. She thought I would take advantage of her, that I had no self control. I felt a wave of bitterness towards her, and towards myself for the erection that had claimed me when I had first saved her. If she had noticed, then it was no wonder that she thought me nothing more than a lustful beast.

"If I had wanted you, little dancer," I growled, "I would have taken you already. A man who has the strength to snap a neck would have no trouble subduing a child like you, as I think you already know." At once I cursed myself for the sharpness in my tone, that was hardly a comfort to her, but I could not moderate it. "Take off the cloak."

She obeyed, her hands trembling as she removed the black garment from her body. I tipped the bottle over the cloth, applying the potion and reaching out to her, but at once her arm moved defensively over her naked breast and the deep scratch just above it.

"Meg Giry." I couldn't stop my voice coming out sharply, and even to my ears it sounded impatient. She lowered her hand into her lap, blushing hotly as I dabbed at the scratch. I fought to keep my own embarrassment under control, running through a well-known melody in my head and then reversing the notes in order to distract myself from the naked, nubile flesh under my fingers.

_Just one touch…_

"How do you know who I am?"

Her question jerked me back to my senses.

"This is my opera house, girl, and I know everyone in it." I replied, trying to sound matter-of-fact. "I know who everyone is and what everyone is doing. Even in the dead of night when they are climbing out of windows." I looked up to see her blush, and well she might. "I hope that is shame I see, girl."

"It is," she whispered, and winced. "How do you know what you're doing?"

"I read books." It was too long a story to into and not one I wanted to share with the little Giry girl. She nodded and I choose a fresh piece of the cloth, applied more potion, and focused on the cut above her lip. It wasn't a cut, but a bite mark. I could feel her gaze boring into me, a strangely uncomfortable sensation, a remembrance of being stared at, humiliated…

"I have heard you singing in the darkness," she said and I felt myself tense. "I've heard your voice. I've heard what you say to her. She calls you her angel. An angel of music."

"Christine." Her name escaped my lips in a sigh. I took Meg's chin in my hand to stop her from flinching away as I tended to the bite mark. "And what do you call me, Meg?"

"My mother says you are the Opera Ghost."

_Ah_. That should earn me some respect, if nothing else.

"A name as good as any other. Ghosts and phantoms can move wherever they like, girl." I took a breath, thinking carefully about how to phrase what I wanted to say, to reprimand her as her dead father would have done. "I am watching everyone and if I see you behaving so foolishly again then you will have more to face than just the possibility of rape in the streets of Paris. Your Opera Ghost may not be there to save you next time."

She shuddered, and I wondered if my words were too harsh. No; it was a justified scolding. I stood up and picked up the tray.

"For now, you will heal. Put on the dressing gown, and then I will return you to your dormitory."

I walked from the bedroom and into the kitchen, putting the tray on the worktop, then finding my jacket and pulling it on. I returned to find Meg standing by the bed, the dressing gown wrapped around her, staring at the blindfold between her hands.

"Put that on too." I commanded, and saw her swallow in apprehension.

"What is it?"

"It is a blindfold, Meg, you can see that perfectly well."

"And why am I to wear it?" Meg's voice sounded strangled. I stepped towards her, trying to keep my voice low and my tone gentle.

"Because I do not want visitors, Meg. This is my home and it would be inconvenient for me if you were to find your way back here uninvited, or if you were to tell anyone else where to find me."

"I won't tell anyone." She gasped. "I swear it."

"I know." I took her chin in my hand again to ensure that she was looking me directly in the eyes. "I saved your virtue tonight, and possibly your life. The least you can do in return is obey me and let me keep my privacy. I am not blindfolding you in order to cause you harm. I am not going to molest you or hurt you in any way. You must trust me."

I took the blindfold from her unresisting fingers and moved to stand behind her.

"Trust me." I repeated when her breath caught in her throat, shoulders tensing as I fastened it over her eyes and secured the knot tightly. "Trust me."

At six-foot-two, I was almost a foot taller than most of the men in Paris, but standing behind Meg Giry, the top of her head barely on a level with my shoulder, I seemed to tower over her. I placed both hands gently but firmly on her shoulders and directed her through my home, into my boat, through the catacombs. It was like a child's game, and I knew that she _did_ trust me, that really she had no choice. The pace was slower than I would have liked, but I couldn't really rush her after what she had been through tonight. What was more worrying was that she didn't respond to me quite the way I had expected; I had worked for a long time to make my voice appealing, hypnotic, seductive even, but Meg still felt tense under my hands where others would have submitted.

I stopped her outside her dormitory door and leaned down to murmur in her ear.

"You have returned. Goodnight, Meg Giry."

I pulled the blindfold from her eyes, melting into the darkness as she blinked, looked around, sought my shape, but failed to find me.

"Goodnight, Opera Ghost," she whispered into the shadows. "Goodnight, angel."

_Angel_… It felt strange to hear that name from someone who was not Christine.

XxXxX

Madame Giry returned to the Opera House late the following day, but I decided that she deserved a good night's rest before I informed her of the events that had taken place. I entered her apartments within the Opera House the morning after her return, judging the time to be after she had dressed, but before she began her daily activities.

She was just finishing applying her make-up when she caught sight of my reflection in the mirror and made a startled movement, almost poking the kohl in her eye. I gave a small smirk.

"Good morning, Madame. I trust your trip went well?"

"Good morning, Erik." She straightened up from where she had been leaning over to look in the mirror, turned to me and indicated the breakfast on the small table by the fireplace; the coffee press, pastries and newspaper.

"Would you like some coffee?" She offered. "Or a croissant?"

I smiled. "I've already eaten, thank you, but coffee would be most welcome."

She gestured to me to sit as she turned to fetch another cup, then sat on the other side of the table and picked up the coffee pot.

"You don't take milk or sugar do you?"

"No."

I accepted my coffee as Madame Giry sat down to eat.

"What can I do for you, Erik?"

I hesitated, sipping the hot beverage.

"I need to talk to you about Meg," I began, and her eyes widened.

"What about Meg?" She asked, alarmed. "She's no threat to you, Erik, I promise you."

I lifted my hand.

"I never said she was, Madame. No, I'm afraid there was… an incident while you were away."

I stopped speaking when my eyes caught an article in the newspaper that was open under my coffee cup. From upside-down, I read: _Man Found Dead_, and the name of the street where Meg had been assaulted.

"What is it?" Madame Giry prompted, then her eyes followed mine to the newspaper article. "Erik… did you have something to do with this? With the… mugging?"

"That man wasn't mugged," I replied. "I killed him."

"What?!" She looked horrified. "Erik, how could you—"

"He was trying to rape Meg."

Madame Giry's face, which had gone red with anger, turned white with shock. As gently as I could, I told her about following Meg into Paris and saving her from her attacker.

"He drugged her in order to prevent her fighting; she passed out in my arms. She was unconscious for maybe an hour. I tended her injuries when she woke, and they're not serious, mostly scratches and some bruising on her… thighs. He wasn't successful in… but she was terrified half to death."

She was breathing quite hard, and her hand was shaking as she took a large gulp of coffee.

"My girl… My Meg… attacked in the streets. God, I…" She swallowed again, her whole frame trembling now. "She was drugged? When?"

"When she was in the public house, or soon afterwards. I took the drug off him, but it's not one I recognise. I saw him… encouraging her to drink it, but at the time I thought it was brandy…"

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"So… when she left the Opera House, it was of her own volition."

"It was." I agreed, watching her curiously. She heaved a great sigh.

"Of all the stupid, irresponsible…"

"Madame…"

"I have told her and _told_ her _never_ to go into Paris by herself! God, if Claude were here, he'd…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "I have tried to be a good mother, Erik, to Meg and Christine and all the other orphans and waifs who find themselves in my care. Including you. My own flesh and blood! Why would she defy me, Erik, why?! Can't she understand that the restrictions I place upon her are for her own protection? Doesn't she know how cruel the world is?"

"She got a taste of it that night," I replied.

"And will get another taste today." She sighed, stood and picked up her cane. "I hate having to do this… I always hate it. I can't stand beating the girl, making her cry… but I must."

I had risen to my feet at the same moment.

"I shall leave you, Madame."

"Erik?"

I had turned to her wardrobe door, where one of my secret entrances was concealed.

"Madame Giry?"

"Thank you for telling me. And thank you for saving Meg."

"Your humble servant, Madame." I bowed, and left the room.

XxXxX

It is the use of mirrors that enables me to see into Madame Giry's office; the room does not lend itself to concealment the way the manager's office does, being small with bookcases against the walls and a glass pane in the door. I had not known that the concierge of the Opera House would become an ally, and thus had used the technology of the periscope to see what happened within. Listening was not an issue, as the walls were thin.

It was an hour and a half later, and the newspaper containing the report of the man's death was lying open on the desk. Meg Giry entered the room with the graceful toe-heel steps of a ballerina that had become habit to her. The elder Giry entered and closed the door softly behind her.

"What is it, Mother?" The girl's tone was timid, subservient. A good start.

"What happened the night before last, Meg?" Her mother asked.

"I don't know what you—"

That was perhaps the worst thing Meg could have done. Madame Giry may well tolerate Meg's stupidity, but lying was a cardinal sin. The woman confirmed this by slamming her hand down on the newspaper lying on her desk.

"Don't lie to me!"

Meg flinched, her eyes on the newspaper. Her lips moved silently for a moment, and then the confession came, haltingly, guiltily.

"I… I crept out into the city. I went into a public house and met this man and then…"

Her voice trailed off into an unspoken apology, and Madame Giry stepped in front of her daughter and backhanded her across the face with such force that Meg stumbled back.

"I have told you and told you never to go into Paris by yourself!" She shouted. "And the moment I leave the Opera House you go straight off and disobey me, and look what happens!"

"I'm sorry," Meg had her hand against her cheek, tears beginning to fall. "I'm so sorry… please…"

"Don't you dare plead with me, Meg!" Madame Giry's voice crackled with her anger, marching around her daughter and shoving her towards the desk. "Stupid child!"

Meg took a deep breath, and without another word, placed her trembling hands against the desk, resigned to what was to come. Her cheek was bright red where her mother's strike had landed.

I do not consider myself a cruel man by nature. I _can_ be cruel, when the situation requires it, and in my darkest moments, I have enjoyed that cruelty, but I have never been cruel simply for the sake of it. Madame Giry was not cruel either, but she had her morals and stuck to them. Meg had wronged her, disobeyed her, frightened her, and the punishment would be severe.

Meg's body tensed as her mother drew back her cane and brought it down hard against the girl's back. The second blow drove the girl to her knees on the floor, her hands catching the newspaper as she fell. She kept her eyes on it, sobbing as stroke after stroke landed on her back. I remembered the sounds, the pain, the humiliation of enduring such a punishment… I watched Madame Giry's face, and saw a strange expression. This beating was not being given in anger, but out of a sense of duty, and she herself was struggling with performing it. She truly hated having to inflict pain upon her child. By the time the cane had hit its mark two dozen times, there were tears streaming down the older woman's face as well. She laid down the cane, knelt, and gathered Meg into her arms, rocking her gently and stroking her hair.

"You could have been so badly hurt, Meg," she cried. "You could have been _killed_! You might have been if it hadn't been for _him_."

I narrowed my eyes; did Madame Giry know I was watching and listening?

"My God, Meg, I love you so much, I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you. The thought of what almost happened…"

_Love_. It was a punishment given in love, unlike the ones I had known. Meg was apologising again, her tears still falling, and her mother shushed her and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"All is forgiven now. Go to your room, Meg. Go and rest. And say a prayer thanking God that _he_ was there to protect you."

I folded the periscope away and eased from my hiding place, heading for the auditorium, which I knew would be dark and empty at this time of day. Box Five, the one I had chosen as my own, was an excellent place to view a performance and an excellent place to think.

Meg Giry, sixteen-year-old daughter of Madame Giry, friend and roommate of my Christine, and now thanking God that I had been there to prevent her rape. Ungraciously, I hoped this did not mean the Girys were expecting me to act every time the girl stepped out of line; Opera Ghost I may be, but I couldn't be in two places at once and guardian angel I most certainly was not.

_All is forgiven now…_

There was a movement in the dark auditorium below me. As if conjured from my own thoughts, Meg was walking along one of the rows of seats in the stalls, presumably cutting through the auditorium to get back to her dormitory. I caught my breath as a shaft of the dim light from the few lit lamps illuminated her back; there was already bruising and a single bleeding line where the cane had done its damage, the red seeping through the white of her rehearsal dress. Suddenly, Meg was looking straight up at the Box where I sat, directly at me. I ducked behind the curtain, but it was too late.

"I see you!" Came her voice. It was shaking slightly, and I wondered if the beating was taking its toll on her. Time for one of my tricks. I concentrated, and then threw my voice so that she twisted to the left and away from my actual location.

"Perhaps you see too much, Mademoiselle Giry."

"Are you following me?" She sounded half afraid, half angry. "Are you following me, _again_?"

Insolent child! I opened the trapdoor hidden in the seat, keeping my eyes on her and throwing my voice out so that it sounded as if I were on stage.

"Again, little dancer? Weren't you glad of my intervention last time?"

_Little dancer?_ Where had that come from? A few minutes in her company and I was using a pet name for her? God, I must be losing my head. I dropped silently through the seat and to the ground below, crouching low.

"How are you _doing that?!_" She cried in frustration, sounding as though she might cry. "Where _are you?!_" She spun, gave a whimper of pain and clutched at the row of chairs in front of her, head bowed. More tears glittered faintly on her cheeks.

"Ghosts are _felt_, girl, rarely seen." I told her sternly. "Phantoms can move where they will."

"You told her!" She accused through gritted teeth.

"I told her." I confirmed. Had Meg really believed that she could get away with her foolish behaviour? "Any responsible person would tell a parent that her child had been in such danger."

"Only if it concerned that person, and you are not my father!" Her eyes sprung open. "Are you?"

I laughed. I couldn't help myself. The notion was ridiculous; as if I could be here father. She knew full well who he was.

"No, Mademoiselle, I am not your father. But yes, I told your mother what happened to you."

I edged noiselessly along the row of chairs behind her. Up close the bruising really was severe. I would have to speak to Madame Giry, provide her with my healing potion.

"And she beat me!"

I was beginning to feel angry now; Meg was supposed to be feeling grateful to me for rescuing her, not resentful because she got what she truly deserved. Even with her bruises, I was sorely tempted to sit, drag Meg over the chairs between us and across my knee. My fist clenched and relaxed.

_She is not yours to discipline…_ Oh, but were she my daughter…

"She punished you and it was no more than you deserved. Your attitude at this moment suggests a further beating would not go amiss." My tone was full of the threat and she shuddered, evidently aware that I meant it. "Some lessons are hard-learned, Meg, and I trust that this punishment will mark your soul for far longer than it marks your back."

"Were you watching us?" She asked.

I did not reply, standing directly behind Meg now. I could see her pulse jumping in her neck, a freckle on her right shoulder-blade.

"Are you still there?" She asked.

I reached out my hand, letting it hover over her golden hair, not actually touching her, but she went utterly tense, somehow sensing my presence. I did not bother to disguise the location of my voice as I bent forward over the row of seats that separated us.

"Go and rest, Mademoiselle Giry," I told her, my breath stirring the tendrils of hair that had escaped her ballerina's bun. "Rest, my disobedient child."

She moved away without looking around, her footfalls silent in the ballet slippers she wore. I backed out of the stalls, melting into the shadows of the auditorium, watching her leave, struggling with my own emotions. Predominant was the thanks I felt that I was not a parent; how did mothers and fathers cope when their child was disobedient or disrespectful? How did they temper their wrath with the urge to love and protect that must surely come with having a child of one's own?

Meg Giry was not my daughter, and was, technically, not a child. Part of me could not comprehend the idea that she was only a few months younger than my Christine, and not the child I associated with her name… and yet, another part saw her as the little girl she had been, daring and adventurous, perhaps, but easily cowed by a stern word and a tale of the Opera Ghost. There again was that image of a young woman, lying on my bed, unconscious and pliant to my every desire. Could the two really be the same?

I did not have the time or the inclination to pursue any kind of interest in the Giry girl, Christine Daaé held my heart and would make my song take flight… but her young friend would have to be observed, just in case the foolish streak of daring that had compelled her to seek adventure in the night-time streets of Paris should resurface, and urge Meg to search for the Opera Ghost. I had the ear of her Mother, and even if I did not, I could bring horrors to her door, dissuade her from meddling in things that did not concern her.

I watched Meg reach the end of the row of seats, walk to the door that led into the main part of the Opera House. Her eyes scanned over the place where I was wrapped in shadows, and did not pause. To her observation the auditorium was silent. Empty.

XxXxX

**I hope you have enjoyed this alternative view of the events that started '**_**The Angel's Shadow'**_**. Please leave a review! Are there other scenes you would like to read from another character's point of view? ~ Louise-Anne**


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